


Turn Me On

by rispacooper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Gay Bar, Hand Jobs, In Public, Intoxication, Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air feels like it’s carrying the music with it, like a girl’s sweet voice is touching him along with the carefully encroaching press of someone’s fingertips at his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Me On

**Author's Note:**

> Smut Monday strikes again. [Smut Monday and a pic or two from coffeebuddha](http://coffeebuddha.tumblr.com/post/31752535427/smut-monday)  
> Guess which two pictures inspired me.

He doesn’t know the song any more than he knows the guy, and there is a part of him that would freak out about that—the guy, not the song—if he weren’t so blissfully beyond caring. He’s had Adderall and rum and a lot more rum and the beat is loud, rising and soaring around him and making him feel graceful and hot.

It’s a literal heat, prickling at his armpits until he lifts his arms and the guy, whoever he is he has nice hands, pulls his shirt up by the hem and over his head. Stiles isn’t sure where it goes, but he hesitates for a moment because no one has ever seen him shirtless outside of the locker room and compared to some of the guys in this club he isn’t much to look at.

But the air that had felt so hot a second ago seems cool now, cool enough to make him shudder and twist to let the air dry the sweat that seems to be everywhere. The air feels like it’s carrying the music with it, like a girl’s sweet voice is touching him along with the carefully encroaching press of someone’s fingertips at his back. The sensation makes his mouth open, but it’s not a protest, it’s more like a moan, and he can’t tell what’s more arousing, the thought of a girl touching him or this guy actually touching him.

The guy had stripped his clothes off, Stiles realizes in a numb sort of shock, right as he realizes that his underwear is visible over the waist of his jeans, and that the guy is dancing with him, in time with him, moving slowly against his back.

He wants to shout in triumph—doesn’t matter how he dresses, someone thinks he’s hot—but there is no one to shout to, and anyway, when he opens his mouth, a different sound comes out, an embarrassingly loud and shocked moan, that only gets louder when nice hands creep around his waist and trail gently down and then back up.

They almost reach his nipple before one of those very nice hands dips down, scratching lightly over his shivering, damp skin as it circles his belly button and then—and then—drops lower.

Stiles jumps, just a little, he can’t help it, but throws his head back at almost the same moment, hoping he doesn’t bash the guy’s face with his skull, he wants the move to be sexy, not awkward, and it must be, because the nice hands grip into his skin for a moment, curling into his hips to pull him back, and then there is an opened mouth at his neck and Stiles is the one grinding and groaning and generally not giving a fuck who can see them.

His blood is pounding like the beat, like this song that feels like it’s lasting forever, which is okay, because her sweet voice is twisting him up on the inside and the guy’s mouth is sucking hard hickeys onto his neck and Stiles reaches back and pulls hard at the guy’s bare skin. Bare hot skin. His mind short-circuits a little as his dick gets hard, full on, aching, in-public tent-pole hard, and then he squeezes and cries out, just hoping he will be heard over the music.

“Harder.” Maybe Stiles is used to people who could have heard him anywhere, but he can’t make his voice louder, not when a hand curves over the other side of his neck and holds him still so the guy can give it to him harder. It hurts, bruising and wet, not even a scraping of teeth, just suction to make him arch back and shut his eyes and forget all about dancing. He pushes back and swears that he’s dreaming when a hand slides down over his stomach and pushes past the elastic of his underwear.

“Oh God.” It’s all he can he can stammer out as his body jerks, because someone else is touching his cock. Someone else is touching his cock, stroking it lazily once despite the confines of his pants and his underwear and then again, harder, when Stiles shakes and makes a noise he knows is hungry. Fuck it, the guy can’t hear it, no one can hear it but Stiles maybe, and no one else on this dance floor cares what is happening, which is that someone finds Stiles attractive. From the back, but whatever, he will take it.

So he pushes up into a tight fist and moans when the guy moves his mouth to a new spot, marking him with hard, sucking kisses that hurt, hurt so much he can feel it, and it feels amazing. He grinds back, thrilling at the hard dick against his ass, and then punishing squeeze to his cock in retaliation. Maybe he’s gotten used to rough, it doesn’t mean anything. He just keeps asking for more anyway. “Harder,” he gives orders, because… just because. “Harder.” His voice is getting softer, cracking, audible only to him, but the guy with nice hands and a vicious mouth doesn’t care as long as Stiles keeps saying yes, so he keeps saying it, rocking his hips back faster and faster because everything seems to be building.

He’s hot, dripping sweat he can taste on his lips, and breathing unevenly as everything seems to go silent. It’s just the sound of his grunting, animal, desperate, and the hands and mouth on him, and then his voice. “Harder.” Until he feels it, teeth against his skin and hands slamming him back against another body and he’s coming, the world red behind his eyes, his body shaking.  


The guy pulls away with a startled sound, like he hadn’t expected Stiles to come so soon, but Stiles sways on his feet and shivers, not entirely sure he isn’t going to fall over when the guy steps back, probably disappears.

Stiles opens his eyes, not to look for him, because people disappear when you want them there, when you need them, that’s what they did, and he is also drugged and drunk and high from orgasm and he just needs to see to stay up.

The world is red in front of his eyes, or that’s just eyes watching him from across the dance floor, eyes that don’t care about dark like ears that can hear everything. Stiles holds his breath, doesn’t move despite the pool of spunk in his underwear, and then the song finally ends. 

For a few seconds, or forever, Stiles stares at Derek, because that is fucking Derek there, fucking Derek fucking Hale, and Derek had just watched him get laid and also just watched him get left, and Stiles honestly isn’t sure which is more humiliating. Of course Derek wouldn’t understand, Derek could have anyone and probably, he’d never been used and then rejected, and he never would be.

Stiles is burning, he can feel the shame or the alcohol tearing through him, and it gives him enough strength to glare back before turning away. It’s just for a second, he would swear to that even drunk, even buzzed, whichever he is, but in that second he has time to let out one shaky breath and wipe at his face as a new song begins, hard, pulsing beats and distant words, then hands yank him back.

He’s against another hard body, there are hands at his waist, but he knows these hands. They create tremors under his skin, and they aren’t bruising at all. He opens his mouth but this time he can’t think of anything to say at all, and he can’t do anything but reach back and grab a handful of Derek’s hair when Derek lowers his head to inhale over his neck.

Stiles is half-convinced Derek is about to speak, only then he remembers this is Derek, so he probably isn’t, and even if he did say something, Stiles wouldn’t hear it, because he is suddenly conscious of just two things; Derek’s cheek sliding over his neck, his stubble rough against the raw skin like something gentle and hard at the same time, and the hot length of Derek’s erection against his ass.

“Fuck.” Stiles breathes it out of shock, but like it was an invitation, Derek stops rubbing his face against Stiles’ bruised skin—pure, unadulterated torture, like setting Stiles’ nerve endings on fire and making him thrust up even though he’d just come—and opens his mouth to suck over the bruise some other guy had just left.

Stiles’ thoughts are swirling with sensory overload and things to examine later, but his body is one hundred percent on board with what Derek is doing. It knows what Derek is doing and it does not care. He cards his fingers through Derek’s hair and then twists it into a tighter grip, and he doesn’t have to say anything, Derek sucks new bruises into his skin, harder, harder than any human ever could, but he is the one moaning into Stiles’ skin while his hands skate down over Stiles’ stomach. He pushes a hand into Stiles’ underwear with purpose, and Stiles tugs at his hair, but Derek touches his sensitive cock and the pool of cooling jizz and then makes a rough sound that reverberates down through Stiles’ chest, louder than the bass in this club, changing the beat of his heart. 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, buzzed and desperate and still nowhere near as desperate as Derek is, and tomorrow, tomorrow he will question that, but now he licks his lips and moves toward Derek’s hand when Derek pulls it from his pants. His come is cool, thick, but he sucks it from Derek’s fingers and then yanks a weak Derek forward by his hair. 

There is still the pound of the music inside the bathroom, but it’s muffled and nowhere near as loud as the beat of Stiles’ heart, because he doesn’t feel so drunk anymore, at least not enough to not notice the number of people in the bathroom with them. He still has a hold on Derek’s hair and those people are turning to look at him, smirking until they see Derek and then their expressions make Stiles bare his teeth at them in the most unfriendly smile ever, because yes, bitches, Derek is here with him. Some other guy left him, but Derek is trailing after him and glaring at everyone in there who so much as glances at them and Stiles knows with a hyper-aware, fascinating certainty that no one in there is going to be bothering them now.

He catches a glimpse of them in the mirror, his bare chest, the hickeys at his neck, the way Derek is tracking him-- the way Derek is tracking _Stiles_. Stiles turns with no warning to put his mouth to Derek’s neck. He kisses without any effort at all, tired, excited, open-mouthed kisses that feel sloppy, probably are, but Derek shoves him forward into the metal wall of a toilet stall and all Stiles can think is that this is going to happen and there will be witnesses.

It says something, something about him, or them, but that part of his brain isn’t working, and Derek just leans against him and shakes as Stiles marks his neck with his teeth and pulls his shirt up to feel his skin. Fuck, his skin. Stiles might be getting hard again just from touching it. 

He angles his head down, mouthing at Derek’s collarbone, and everything is a rush, the shocked, heady sounds around them, Derek’s startled, ragged breathing, the way Derek is grasping at him like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. Stiles takes them and puts them on his chest. They’re hot enough to feel like a branding, or how he imagines one anyway. It makes him bite down, slide down, his knees going wobbly when he gets his tongue on Derek’s stomach. Then he’s on the floor and pressing kisses to the lines of Derek’s hips, and Derek has one hand smoothing over his head, through his short hair, curving around his skull. He shifts forward, spreading his legs, and Stiles kind of recklessly kisses at his jeans too, the bulge right in front of his face. He doesn’t know what to do with it; he just knows what he wants to do with it.

That’s for him and he can kind of smell it, though not nearly enough, not like he’d want to, and that wasn’t something he’d considered when he’d watched every porn clip known to man. But his hands keep sliding over Derek’s thighs to the beat of whatever song is playing and there’s a thumping, _urgent_ freaking pound of blood between his legs, and Derek keeps petting him, gentler than Stiles had ever thought he’d be.

So he licks, as wet as he can make it, but it’s denim and dry and fuck that, even if it makes Derek lurch forward and growl above him. Stiles tears at his zipper, yanking it down with no coordination at all, but this is Derek and for some reason that doesn’t matter the way it did with that other guy. Derek takes it, like he expects it, and just holds tighter to Stiles.

“Stiles,” he says, only it doesn’t sound like a warning. Stiles flushes even hotter than rum can make him and ducks his head in when he pulls Derek’s jeans open and there’s a bare, hard cock. He kisses that too, sloppy and stupid and it doesn’t matter because Derek instantly shifts his legs wider apart and pulls at his head, drawing him in, so Stiles takes what he can.  


It feels like a lot, like too much, except that doesn’t matter right now either. He chokes and swallows and chokes again, then hollows out his cheeks as best as he can and feels stupid and proud when Derek’s fingers travel down to the back of his neck and pet him.  


Stiles is not a beta. He’s not here for the alpha love, but he pushes himself forward at the touch and runs his hands over Derek’s exposed skin.  
People might still be watching, probably are, and he can’t even think he’ll mind in the morning, much, because there’s a new salty taste in his mouth and Derek isn’t moving, he’s just breathing hard and running his fingers down the back of Stiles’ neck.

He’s not going to ask for it to be harder, Stiles realizes. He won’t ask and he won’t demand. But Stiles knows he’d want harder if Derek’s mouth were on his dick. He’d want _more_ , so he slurps and pulls back for another wet kiss at the head and Derek groans for him, and that means harder, in wolf, probably. Like a growl would mean, _More, Stiles, Fuck_ , or something close to it, so he does it again, sucking until Derek growls low and he can hear people fleeing the bathroom.

Not everyone, but his heartbeat is loud in his ears and the music drowns out everything else. He pulls away, putting his mouth on hot, red balls and the flat plane of Derek’s stomach, the taut muscles of his thighs, because Stiles might not get to do this again and he wants to know all of it, but he ends up back at Derek’s cock, kissing his way up the shaft in a way that makes Derek pant and shove closer, kissing until he has the head back between his lips and he closes them tight so he can get the other thing he wants.

He uses his tongue, not sure what he’s doing until Derek moves forward in a steady rhythm and his hand goes still in Stiles’ hair, and then Stiles does it again and again until someone is groaning and he can hear metal being deformed and then Derek comes in his mouth. 

It’s unexpected but he swallows, and swallows, and swallows, and then pulls away and it seems like something that he’d been expecting to be a bigger deal. He didn’t even get much of a taste. For that reason he swirls his tongue around the head until there is another small burst and Derek protests above him with a sharp growl.

Stiles pulls his mouth away but doesn’t move otherwise. He isn’t sure he can and since Derek isn’t making him he doesn’t want to. He just closes his eyes and leans in until his face is against skin. Derek is still there, because Stiles never can get rid of him, and that’s just funny now, and meaningful, a little bit, as Derek’s hand spreads out on the back of his head. He’s still growling, a low, constant sound that forces Stiles to finally open his eyes again.

There is one other person in the bathroom with them, a man, shirtless, hot, with dark brown skin and nice hands. Stiles glares at him until Derek’s fingers slide to his cheek, and then Stiles turns and lets them slip into his mouth. His jaw feels achy but he doesn’t really care, he keeps his head up and lets Derek’s wolfy anger drive the guy from the room.

It’s only then that he moves his head so Derek’s fingers pop free of his buzzing, wet lips. It takes him another second, but he raises his chin and leans back until he can see Derek’s face, and the fading red of his eyes. It’s silent for a while, if he doesn’t count the thundering bass of the music playing on the dance floor, and even drunk, he wonders why a werewolf would come into a place like this. Then he digs his hands into Derek’s thighs so he can climb to his feet.

The kiss is awkward and weird and probably tastes like dick. It also makes Stiles moan and scrabble forward until Derek’s hands make new bruises at his hips to hold him up. He can feel Derek’s heart beating and knows Derek can hear his. It’s louder than the music, but Stiles doesn’t know the song anyway.


End file.
